Siren Song
by Daryl Alenko
Summary: During a particularly laid back, happy feast, Merlin finds himself garnering a particular amount of attention, leaving Arthur contemplating the hold his manservant seems to have over people.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Siren's Song

 **Rating:** Mature, language and suggested situations

 **Pairing:** Hints at possible Merthur

 **Summary** : During a particularly laid back, happy feast, Merlin finds himself garnering a particular amount of attention, leaving Arthur contemplating the hold his manservant seems to have over people.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters in this fanfiction.

* * *

"Thank you all for coming!" The voice of Uther Pendragon soars through the Great Hall as he stands from the table he has been settled behind for the past half an hour. The general conversation of the room quickly dies down as all eyes turn toward him. Well, almost all eyes! Two servants are currently engaged in a bit of a staring contest that no one else in the room seems to be witness to.

"It is with great pleasure that I announce that Camelot is safe once more. Thanks to the efforts of my son, Prince Arthur, Camelot has escaped unscathed from another sorcerer that would see her destroyed in her prime!" As a chorus of cheers erupts, Arthur's gaze swivels away from his Father, searching for a set of blue eyes that he expects to see pointed toward Uther with sadness and revulsion in their depths. "So! Eat, drink, and be merry!" Another round of happy murmuring follows as Uther settles himself in his seat, drinking deep of his goblet.

Arthur frowns, having expected to see Merlin looking at him by now with that wounded, sad gaze he always offered the Prince when Uther spoke of such sad things. But, no. Merlin's gaze is nowhere to be found! The Prince leans forward in his seat, disguising the movement by reaching for some revolting sweet bun concoction while his eyes dart through the room.

As his fingers close around the crusted thing, he sucks in a silent, deep breath. There he is! Merlin is leaning, LEANING against a pillar, his shoulder resting against it, so that he is leaning in profile. Rather than standing straight and at attention as he should be! His hands are clasped in front of him, long, elegant fingers of his right hand wrapped around his left wrist. He is also wearing the largest, brightest smile Arthur has seen in a very long time. However, while all of that catches his attention, none of those details seem particularly important when he realizes that the reason he doesn't see Merlin's gaze seeking him out, is because Merlin is -staring- at someone. Unwavering. Unblinking. Just staring. With that big grin on his face!

"Honestly, Arthur, are you completely useless without a servant? You know you cannot stand those sweet rolls." Morgana's words cut into Arthur's thoughts, his eyes cutting toward the older woman as she reaches for a grape off of her plate. He blinks languidly, regards the roll on his plate and with gritted teeth, pushes it to the side.

"I was momentarily .. distracted." He grinds those words out as he grabs a handful of strawberries and settles them on his plate, his appetite a bit lacking for some reason.

"No doubt by my beauty, though you know I would not touch you with a ten foot pole." She bats her lashes coyly at him as he contemplates the possibility that it would be worth a day in the stocks to smash strawberries against her smug face. But no, Uther would not tolerate that.

"And how happy I am about that." he snipes back, shifting uncomfortably in his seat for a moment as he picks one of the strawberries up. Across the room, he sees a flash of red and blue move and he jerks upward in the seat, searching for Merlin. There, among the servants, he sees him once more. He is no longer leaning his shoulder against the pillar. Instead, he has switched positions so that his shoulders rest evenly against the cool stone. His body is stretched lean and taut, and Arthur wonders how long Merlin's clothes have looked so tight across his once skeletal frame. This time, his hands are tucked somewhere behind his back and his eyes are down cast. The grin, though. That ear to ear, bright, shining smile remains the same. A few moments of staring, and he realizes that Merlin is speaking. He wishes he could hear what he was saying!

"Arthur, son. Lord Jarden was just telling me the most fascinating thing ..." Arthur blinks, tearing his gaze away from Merlin to look over at his Father.

* * *

The wine pours freely upon the tongues of those gathered in the name of celebration. Honeyed mead and ales swish from tankards and mugs, and the gathering has passed the brink of formality. Servants mingle with tipsy nobility and all eat, drink, and share their happiness in copious amounts. The Great Hall is filled with the cacophony of voices, singing, speaking, even whispering! It's the happiest sight Arthur can ever remember, but it does little to calm his own internal struggle. Melancholia creeps up through his soul, inky tendrils wrapping themselves about his heart and squeezing cruelly every time he tries to engage himself in the goings on.

Why? Why does he feel this way!? Why is he being pulled down beneath the waves of sorrow when his heart should be soaring!? He slams his goblet down on the table beside his empty plate, the sound a reverberating clatter that draws the distasteful attention of those closest to him, though it is only a momentary reprieve before they are back to their lighthearted conversations. Even his being a -Prat- cannot seem to dampen the festivities raging around him. And in that moment, he misses his manservant more than ever. Where is Merlin when he needs him? His witty banter, his sarcastic titles to call him on his Princely bullshit!? He feels a near overwhelming, impish desire to upend the table. To slap his goblet to the floor, throw his plate against a wall. SOMETHING to get a proper, terrible reaction out of these celebrating idiots!

As if right on cue .. as if some God of the Old Religion has summoned it, he sees the familiar blur of red and blue fabric and he is shoving himself to the very edge of his seat in anticipation. He is a man dying of thirst, desperate for a single drop of water to slake the gnawing pit in his gut. And there it is! Merlin. The moment his eyes focus on his manservant, he is trapped in a quagmire of conflicting emotions and confused musings.

Merlin is not leaning this time. Arthur would prefer it if he were! Because rather than leaning innocently against one of those blasted columns, he is settled in a chair at a table full of Nobles. With a lap full of noble! Lord Tristan Farthing, a Noble about three years Arthur's senior, is currently sitting in Merlin's lap! IN. MERLIN'S. LAP! Arthur drags a heated, trembled breath in through his nose as his jaws clench and grind painfully. Now, he knows that he cannot really say anything. Merlin is hardly the only servant being treated with such kind familiarity by those at the feast, at the moment. But, damn it. This is Merlin. The word MINE flashes across his senses for a moment, but he doesn't have the brainpower to try and process the thought so he summarily dismisses it. Hopefully never to dwell on it again.

Lord Farthing is handsome. A truth that does not escape many. He has soft, boyish features with large doe eyes. In many ways, he reminds Arthur a little of Merlin, though ... god, severely LACKING for some reason. But anyway, the looks of Farthing is not what is important at the moment. The fact that he is in his (MINE) manservant's lap isn't even the most shocking thing. The slow curve of a large, glistening cherry being dragged across Merlin's bottom lip by Farthing is what matters! For one horrible moment, Arthur wonders if something in his head has actually disconnected. Because his mind becomes a fuzzy, jumbled mess and he cannot form a coherent thought to save his life. Honestly! A sorcerer or Druid, or any other enemy of Camelot could come crashing through that door right this second and he would pretty much be dead. And this time, Merlin is -definitely- too far away to be able to save his life. Not to mention the lap full of cherry-wielding Nobleman. (And if his fingers are inching toward the disused knife beside his plate, he surely is -NOT- going to acknowledge it!)

His tongue flicks out across his own lip, mirroring the same action being taken by his manservant. Merlin's tongue thrusts out to taste the dripping juice of the cherry before he feels it inch past his lips and into his mouth. He makes a soft sucking motion and shivers a little as the cherry passes onto his tongue. The juice leaves his lips stained a pleasant red, and Arthur's tongue snaps out across his own lips again before he reaches for the goblet he had discarded moments ago.

"Sire!" One of the bootlicker servants appears out of nowhere, filling the goblet, and Arthur has to censure himself something fierce to keep from screaming at the idiot. Because he had been about to call Merlin to refill the thing. To extricate his manservant (MINEMINEMINE!) from the situation he is surely currently stuck in. Yes, he is stuck. Has to be! He cannot simply tell a Lord to vacate his lap, so he is -enduring- what he must. Not. Enjoying it. All of this, Arthur tells himself as he sips at his goblet of wine.

"Thanks!" The word is wrenched from his lips, and is so unexpected that the servant nearly drops the pitcher of wine. For his part, Arthur is no longer paying attention. He's not even aware he said the blasted word!

He feels the cold press of the goblet click against his front teeth as they gnash down. Lord Farthing is feeding another cherry to a grinning Merlin, and Arthur's hand has already wrapped around the knife beside his plate. He feels the balance of it in his fingers, contemplates his ability to throw the damn thing from this far away and embed it in the handsy twit's back!

"Arthur!" Morgana's voice cuts through the hazy shades of anger that nip like pin pricks of red at the edges of his vision. He forces his vice-like fingers to release the knife and turns his gaze toward the older woman.

"What!?" He snaps out, eyes narrowed angrily over the rim of his goblet as one of her sweet but somehow scary smiles lights her features.

"We really should spar again sometime, Arthur. You know, I have heard of a new technique that might be right up your alley ..." Arthur rolls his eyes and settles back in his chair, knowing that he has little choice but to suffer through one of Morgana's long, drawn out lectures.

* * *

The celebration is out of hand! And somehow, for some -reason-, Arthur is the only one that can see it! And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Merlin is currently dancing with anyone that grabs his hand, wrist, waist, or arm! (And if he feels a little bit of relief that it mostly seems to be the ever sweet Gwen that seems to have nothing but friendly affection for the idiot, he doesn't reflect on it!)

Merlin twirls, some sort of surprising grace having lept up to claim the manservant as he moves amongst those gathered. And there is the cherry-wielding bastard again, ensnaring Merlin with grabby hands at the wrist. Grubby little vice grips on Merlin's perfect wrists! And Merlin! The IDIOT turns on a dime and scoops the man close with an arm around his waist and a hand around his hand! Watching Merlin tuck the noble's hand close is almost more than he can take! But then he's watching him move. Feet that had kicked chamber pots, nearly taken off table legs when tripping into them ... are moving with grace and precision. God, this has to be some kind of enchantment! Merlin has taken something, or been cursed, or SOMETHING! It's the only way everyone could want his attention, that he could suddenly be moving as if born to the court rather than as a peasant in a farming village.

"Arthur!" Morgana drawls his name out with a certain sense of disgust that sends a shiver down his spine. This is not good. -No- good can come from that oily tone of voice and superior smile. It makes his skin crawl and his hand fall beneath the table to let his fingers twine in the fabric of his cloak.

"What?" He tries to sound as disinterested as he can, hoping that if he manages not to rise to her baiting, she will go away!

"You are so dreary, Arthur. Shouldn't you be strutting about? Over talking with all your sword brothers, getting drunk and humping some poor servant girl's leg?" Those .. were most definitely not the words he expected to here from Morgana. Such language, to begin with, was far too improper for one as steadfastly lady-like as she. Which is why he spits a bit of his wine across the table as he tries to wrap his head around what was just said.

"Morgana!" He shudders the words from wine-stained lips with a distasteful wrinkle of his nose. She merely smiles on, and yet, her gaze is not on the one she addresses.

"Oh, please. I have said much worse. Granted, not within earshot, but tonight is not a normal night, Arthur. For instance .." Her words trail off as she settles into a seat next to him, a fair smirk playing across her features as she steals a grape from his plate and points a long, elegant finger in the direction of Merlin. "I have never seen him so happy."

He fights it. He really does. He fights the muscles in his neck, orders them with silent, pleading screams not to bunch and coil beneath his flesh but they will not listen. Thus his head turns, gaze greedily following the length of her finger to see what Merlin is up to now. He heaves a sight of relief as he watches Merlin pull away from Noble Grabby Hands, reaching to take Gwen's hand in his. He stops moving, dips a surprisingly poised bow as he raises Gwen's hand to his lips and bestows a kiss upon her knuckles.

"She is the only one he has done that to. He has not kissed any other hand but hers. I wonder why that is?" Morgana slips the grape between her lips, chewing thoughtfully as she watches Merlin begin to spin Gwen about the room, laughing gaily as they move together in the jaunty dance.

"They are good friends." He grinds those words out between his teeth, his fingers now gripped so tightly in his cloak that his nails ache with the pressure of it. Morgana throws her head back, a ripple of pleasured laughter ripped from her pursed lips before she pushes herself to her feet.

"Yes, they are. And since he is my friend as well, I think it is my turn." She reaches a hand out, trailing her fingers along his shoulder before she steps around the table and heads directly toward Merlin and Gwen. Almost as if he knows she is coming, he spins Gwen out of his arms and turns to drop into a perfectly poised bow again, his hand held out expectantly. Once Morgana slides hers into his, he repeats the gentle brush of lips across her knuckles before he pulls her a respectable distance toward his body and begins to dance.

Arthur's goblet clatters, empty, from his hand. It lands on the table with a hollow ring as it teeters before reclaiming it's proper standing position. Once again, he cannot help but wonder .. what the hell is going on here? He bites at his inner cheek, the faint tang of copper a subtle flavor upon his tongue as he watches Morgana move so perfectly with Merlin. As if the two somehow fit together. He does not like that idea. (Mine.) Merlin should not be fitting with anyone in Camelot. (MINE.)

Because there is a deep, threatening thought burning in the back of Arthur's mind, and he is struggling so hard to try and keep it at bay. Away from him. To acknowledge it will bring so many more questions to light. If Merlin fits with anyone in Camelot, he will leave Arthur. Grow beyond him. There is no reality in Arthur's future in which he doesn't see Merlin somehow involved.

He leans back in his seat, his hands lifting to scrub at his cheeks. Until a flash of Merlin with both Gwen AND Morgana touching him, catches his attention. He watches with clenched jaw as they handle Merlin down, into a chair. In perfect eyeline for Arthur to watch everything they do to his manservant.

* * *

It is official. This entire celebration has somehow been conjured from the very depths of hell to torment him! He forces himself to slide forward on his seat as he watches Gwen and Morgana move around a seated Merlin. Slow, deliberate movements of swishing dress skirts. Exploring hands reaching out to pat down his shoulders, slide up the arms that may or may not have some sort of muscle definition to them beneath the layers of peasant clothes. Morgana's hand is currently brushing along one of Merlin's shoulders, chasing something invisible, though the manservant surely doesn't seem to mind if the heavy lidded eyes and near coy smirk are any indication. (There is no way that Arthur is even going to try and figure out where the hell Merlin has been hiding a lusty, coy smirk like that .. or why the manservant hadn't tried to use it on -HIM-!)

Morgana is standing directly behind Merlin, her hands coming to rest gently on his shoulders for a moment. Gwen has moved around to plop herself lightly in Merlin's lap. Just like the cherry-wielder! (MINE DAMNIT!) Merlin has a high blush across his cheeks, his heavy lidded gaze still face forward for now. His head is tilted back, though, his unruly ebon hair just begging to be fondled. That's what Arthur would do if he were over there. So of course, Morgana would end up doing it instead, wouldn't she? Her fingers flex like Merlin talons, long, spindly and oh god, digging deep into the ruffle of Merlin's hair. The manservant's lips purse into an expression that Arthur can only assume is the product of moaning as Morgana's fingers work across his scalp. Massaging and scrapping across his hair, dragging through the black tendrils. Every time she lifts up, twists and curves to thrust the hair into higher waves of chaos, Arthur feels his hips lift just a little on his chair. As if .. oh god, as if he's thrusting in time with her tugs. Because he can imagine his own fingers there. Wrapped full and deep in Merlin's hair .. tugging to guide those cherry-stained lips across his burning need.

"Ghahhah." He whines the sound out, trying to calculate if there is any chance that he can walk away with a single shred of his dignity if he pours the nearest pitcher of semi cold wine down his pants to still the growing heat there. No. Definitely not. He fights to keep his hand from reaching for it anyway. Instinct trying to force his hand to move rather than simply sit there and take it.

No! No, there will be NO thoughts of -taking- damn you! He huffs an angry, twisted breath, his tongue spilling from his mouth in a sodden heap as he tries to lick his dry lips.

"Arthur .." The slow, lazy drawl of his name from his Father's lips does little to quell the desires and feelings raging a rabid war inside of him. In fact, it takes almost a full minute for him to realize that he's even being addressed!

"Wha?" He blurts the half formed word out, swearing silently that it doesn't come out as a stilted moan as he continues to watch the scene unfold in front of him. Morgana has finished twisting her fingers in Merlin's hair, and the strands are now a disheveled, spiked mess that is far too appealing. Because now, those strands are -begging- to be fingered back down into some semblance of order.

"That is your manservant, isn't it? Merlin, I believe?" Whatever spiral of lusty confusion has been boiling deep in Arthur's gut is almost instantly quashed by the question in his Father's voice. Because it sounds too dark. Too slick. Too -velvety-, and Arthur feels for a single moment as if he might be sick. Physically sick, right that moment.

But he can't, because there is a beast coiled deep in his belly that is demanding things that are confusing and unreal as he watches Gwen begin to wiggle in Merlin's lap. Actually. Wiggle. Her maidenly nether regions slowly wiggle and slip across Merlin's lap in the guise of trying to get a little more comfortable, and poor Arthur wishes to launch a bevy of words slandering her behavior, but manages to keep his lips pursed in a perfectly thin, white line of anger.

"Merlin. Yes." He growls the word yes out in a torrent of negative emotion as he feels his hips thrust upward of their own accord. Again. Trying to rut against something that simply isn't available. But should be. Oh yes, it -should- be!

"Right .. Merlin ..." Oh god, when he realizes that his Father has purred Merlin's name as he reaches for his goblet of wine, Arthur has to fight that desire to be physically sick again. "I think I might just .. summon him over ... my chambers .. maybe ..." The words begin to slip in and out of Arthur's understanding, because the beast in his belly has begin to flex it's claws and he realizes that he is dangerously close to punching his Father to silence his attention toward the manservant. This is a precipice for which he cannot afford to straddle. He turns quickly, fiery gaze landing on the bootlicker that had filled his goblet earlier. As the man approaches, he grabs him by the front of the shirt and snarls.

"You! Make Merlin go and fetch another cask of wine. NOW!" He shoves the man blindly, hoping it is in the direction of his manservant, as his Father begins to stand. Go! GOGOGO! He wills the servant to move swiftly, and does not remember to breathe until Merlin has been extracted from Morgana and Gwen's clutches by the serving man. He slumps back in his seat, suddenly feeling as if the very roof of the castle is falling down upon his shoulders. He is tired, hot, and still swimming in this new-found sea of confusion. He does not like a problem that cannot be solved by beating it into submission or slaying it. There's no way either course of action will work here.

* * *

How long does it take to get a cask of bloody wine!? Arthur's hand slams down on the table beside him, upending his poor empty, abused goblet, but he doesn't really care. He has been forced to listen to his Father drone on and on about Merlin, and his ears, and how his -lips- could be put to such delicious, sinful uses. He had to hit the table to keep from hitting the man himself. Treason is still treason, after all. Double so, probably, if he hit the King in the name of defending a -servants- honor. His fist grips a little tighter, nails biting into his flesh as he stares, almost unblinking, at the doors to the Great Hall. Because really, Merlin should've been back ages ago! A single cask of wine should -not- take that long to .. what the hell!? As if every thing were not already surreal this night, the sight of Merlin, who hates carrying something as light as a travel bag, carrying the large barrel of wine in his own arms, nearly undoes the poor Prince of Camelot.

Merlin's arms look surprisingly sculpted in a lean way as they strain to hold the barrel. His clothes are thoroughly rumpled, the front of his tunic peeled off his stomach and pinned in place by the cask. It allows Arthur to see a thin happy trial of black hair down his navel, disappearing into the band of hid pants. The faint muscles developed from being run ragged as Arthur's manservant do not go unnoticed, either. Wait! RUMPLED CLOTHING?! Oh God, Arthur actually feels a muscle under his eye jump and quake as he lets his vision sear across Merlin's body. Rumpled coat and pants, a few new tears in the hem of his shirt ... and his neckerchief completely askew. Ok, the rumpled clothes he can deal with. Barely. But that little square of fabric? Nope. Nope, whole lotta NOPE! His hand slams down on the table again, and for the -first time tonight-, Merlin finally seems to glance over at him. His lips are still moving. A slow, steady purse and pout, as if he's talking to someone, a single brow popped heavenward in a questioning manner. Probably calling Arthur all kinds of names, as he usually does, despite his insistence that Merlin canNOT talk to him that way. (Only, they both know he can and does, because it angers Arthur any time he shows the proper 'respect.' Because Arthur has come to equate words like prat, clotpole, and dollophead with true respect. How screwed up is that!?)

"Ah, Merlin is back." Uther seems to perk up as he observes the manservant struggling to carry the cask to settle with the other ones. He sets it down with ease, reaching low to smooth the edge of his tunic back down where it belongs, and by the Old Religion, is Uther licking his lips as that bit of skin is covered!?

"M-Merlin .." The name is a tremble from Arthur's lips as he tries to get his menservants attention. But of course, instead, Merlin turns -away- from him, back to Arthur, as he taps the cask. Every thing since now has been a sort of exquisite torture that he hoped had ended. No such luck. Because no sooner is Merlin's back to him, than he sees two perfectly preserved hand prints of flour on Merlin's pert backside. Where someone had obviously tried to get a nice, firm grip of what did NOT belong to THEM! (MINE, DAMMIT!)

Merlin turns around with a fresh pitcher of wine in hand and approaches the table, and for the first time in several hours, Arthur feels as if things are back on track. Back to what they should be. He can breathe again because his manservant is coming toward him as he's supposed to. He picks his discarded goblet up with trembling fingers and moodily holds it out to Merlin. As Merlin turns and skirts the table, coming up between Arthur and Uther. He twists at the waist, pouring a fresh round of wine into Uther's goblet. His lips are still moving, even now, as if he is speaking. But Arthur hears nothing. What the hell is going on here!?

"Ah, Merlin. So sweet of you to serve me, lad. You are such a kind, considerate young man!" Uther's sudden words of praise hit Arthur across the back of the head. Or, at least, feel as if they do. As if they are a physical attack against his very person! He huffs a deep, uneven breath, and finally manages to turn his head to the side. The first thing he sees? Uther's hand on Merlin. Calloused fingers wrapping in the material of Merlin's neckerchief, trying to pull it free of the expanse of his neck. That is the final straw. Arthur feels something deep and primal burst inside of him. Feels that savage beast coiled in the pit of his stomach fully unfurl an release a bellowing snarl of rage. He bolts form the chair. One hand grabs the pitcher of wine and shoves it onto the table. The other hand wraps around the curve of Merlin's elbow and yanks him away from the table. Doing everything in his power to be gentle with the action, while still ensuring that Merlin is moving with him.

He drags him out of the Great Hall and toward his own chambers.

* * *

Arthur shoves Merlin into the room ahead of him, the manservant stumbling a little before managing to right himself. Arthur slams the door shut behind himself, sinking back against it with a wavering breath as he tries to understand his own actions. Reactions. Thoughts. He blinks languidly, lifting his gaze to take in the sight of Merlin falling, exhausted, into Arthur's chair. For what seems like the first time tonight, Merlin doesn't appear to be speaking. His lips are still, pursed, unmoving.

"What the hell are you playing at, Merlin!?" He snarls the words, the beast in his belly pacing angrily, asking for blood and vengeance, though he is unclear who it seeks vengeance against. The King? The cherry-wielder? Morgana and Gwen? Not Merlin, strangely enough. He blames a lot on his manservant, usually in playfully bantering ways rather than with earnest, but for this, he doesn't blame his manservant/friend.

"What .. do you mean .. Sire?" Merlin puffs the words out, struggling to catch his breath before he heaves himself out of the chair. He turns to find the goblet and wine pitcher always kept in Arthur's room, pours himself a cup, and downs it in one go.

"Merlin! That's my wine!" Arthur whines, reaching for the cup, only to have his hand slapped away as Merlin pours a second and downs it as well.

"And I'm -thirsty-, Arthur. I didn't get to have a single drink during the feast, not even of water!" He whinges right back, finally setting the goblet and pitcher back down. Arthur's mouth hangs open in muted surprise, gaze staring at the hand that is still stuck out in the air. He flexes his fingers, before letting the hand fall to his side. Frowning.

"Wait. You didn't drink anything, Merlin? Did you at least manage something to eat?" He tries so hard to disguise the raw concern in his voice but he doesn't have the energy left to do so. When Merlin gives a shake of his head, Arthur surges forward. He grabs Merlin by the shoulders and settles him into his chair again, frowning. "You will not move from that spot, Merlin, or I'll have you in the stocks for three days straight!" No! Wait! No having, remember? Bad Arthur, bad! He clears his throat and just barely manages not to outright jog for his bedroom door. Though once in the hall, he takes off at a dead run toward the kitchens.

Merlin exhales sharply, his throat so scratchy and raw from the past few hours. He struggles not to settle into melancholia as he contemplates the fact that he has once more done everything in his power, despite it being detrimental to his own health, to protect Arthur and can't even tell his Pratness that he has done so! This destiny thing is seriously starting to mess with his funky flow!

Time passes in a strange sort of fog, leaving Merlin feeling uncertain of so many things. He knew this was going to happen ... Gaius was -very- clear what would happen during the feast, but it knowing wasn't enough to fully understand or prepare. His mind is still reeling.

Gwen, he can understand. She had always been sweet and a tad bit flirty with him, but Morgana!? Lord Farthing? God, or even UTHER! The man could barely stomach Merlin's presence for a few minutes before inevitably throwing him into the stocks! So then, why had he tried to remove his neckerchief, tried to touch him!? God, he isn't built for this kind of mind fuck! He throws his head back in agony, his eyes closed so tight he sees little explosions of color against the lids.

"Merlin." Arthur's voice rips Merlin's eyes open, causes him to sit up straighter on the chair as he watches the Prince of Camelot come marching toward the table with a plate of food. The warlock blinks languidly, a look of utter shock on his face as he looks the contents over.

"Wh-what? Arthur ..." He dares steal a peek up at his friend, Arthur looking confused and a little annoyed.

"Only you would be so stupid as to attend one of the only feasts where the servants are allowed to eat and drink freely, and manage -not- to eat or drink anything for the duration, Merlin. Idiot." Merlin squirms in the chair for a moment, as he continues to stare down at the plate. Apple slices, strawberries, two sweet rolls, some soft rind cheese, and a bit of duck.

"Arthur .. these are all of my favorites." Merlin speaks the words low and slow, unsure of what the reaction will be. Arthur rolls his eyes as he grabs one of the fat strawberries and collapses in the chair across from the other man.

"I am well aware, Merlin." He drawls that out before he pops the end of the strawberry into his mouth, taking an almost delicate bite. He is not holding his breath. Especially not out of fear or worry that Merlin will reject the plate for some reason. When the other man lifts an apple slice and pops it into his mouth, Arthur manages to breathe around the strawberry before finishing his bite.

"Merlin ... what the hell happened tonight?" He slides the end of the strawberry onto the plate, leaning back. His gaze unreadable as he watches his friend. Merlin shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat, his hand hovering over the tray for a moment before he grabs another apple slice and downs it.

"What do you mean, Arthur?" His voice is weary and still scratchy. He's too tired to talk about all of this. Tonight has been a living hell of unwanted advances, pain, and so many other things! The last thing he needs is to try and dance around the fact that he has magic and has done everything he could to help Arthur and Camelot. Again.

"You know damn well what I mean, Merlin! What the fuck were all those people doing all over you!? Farthing .. Gwen .. Morgana ... whoever the hell left -flour hand prints on your ass-!? That is not natural!" Merlin snatches a piece of cheese and shoves it into his mouth whole, knowing that it will give him a few moments not to be forced to answer. He had hoped that those moments would allow his nervous and temper to cool. But no. Course not. Cause Arthur has to keep talking!

"I have never, the entire time you've been here, seen a single person go after you like that. Especially not a fucking -nobleman-!" And that does it. Right there. -THAT- is the last straw that breaks something deep inside of Merlin. He jumps up from the table, his long fingers wrapped around the plate of food that Arthur had brought him. He lifts it and flicks his wrists, listening with a certain sense of satisfaction as it smashes against the wall with a loud, satisfying clatter.

"Just because -you- think that I'm not better than the shit I muck out of your stables, that I am useless and pathetic and disgusting in -ever way-, doesn't mean that everyone else in Camelot does! I get it, SIRE .. I'm scum. I'm a mere -servant- and we will never be friends. That doesn't mean others share your flawed convictions. So just .. just .. go fuck yourself, Arthur!" Merlin screams the final words as he climbs over the table and launches himself at the door. He yanks it open and runs from the Prince's room.

* * *

By the time he reaches Gauis' place, he is limping faintly. His cheeks are littered with tears, his eyes swollen and bright red, and his throat hurts so bad that he can barely swallow. He wrenches the door to Gauis' chambers open, not that surprised to see the Court Physician standing over a collection of herbs and powders.

"How did it go, Merlin?" The physician asks without lifting his head. Merlin slaps a hand across either cheek to wipe away the remnants of his tears.

"It worked, Gauis. I sang the entire feast to counteract the Siren's Song. There was .. a lot more attention than I wanted, but I managed to keep everyone from throwing themselves into a wild orgy, and managed to keep Arthur protected from the Song as well." Gauis lifts his gaze then, his eyebrow shooting up at the state that Merlin is in.

"Merlin .." The warlock lifts a hand to cut off whatever his father-figure is about to ay, shaking his head vaguely as he trudges toward his room.

"Good night, Gauis." He slips into his room, closing his door, Gauis sighing softly before he turns back to his work. One day, maybe, Merlin would be able to get the recognition he deserves. One day.


	2. Announcement

I am currently in the middle of finishing a multi-chapter fic that I will be posting soon. Once it is up, I'll start on a sequel for this one! Thanks for the reviews!


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